


Memory Foam

by Blake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP, Season 8, brothers sewing eachother up, domestic life fluff, shameless porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a new bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory Foam

**Author's Note:**

> Objectlesson gave me a vague prompt about stitching each other up, something dripping while hands were too busy to catch it... I don't know. This is what came of it. Basically, porn. Enjoy!

Even limping and losing blood, Dean gravitates to his new room. Sam suppresses a smile when he notices this, pausing mid-step to watch Dean grumbling his way past the bathroom, into the small bedroom he claimed as his own. Motel room procedure was always injured man into the bathroom to get cleaned up. A handful of weeks with his own room, and Dean’s got a new procedure. Sam feels warmed, happy for Dean, in that way that always makes him feel weirdly older than his big brother.

Dean’s bitching a thousand different curses using about six different words as he gingerly sheds his jacket and belly flops onto the bed. Sam follows him in and sits on the bed. It may be _Dean’s room_ , but in this handful of weeks, Sam has developed an ease in recognizing when he’s welcome in it. He hooks finger in the bottom hems of Dean’s shirts, peels until the wound’s exposed.

More bitching. Can’t be too deep. Wounds only scare Sam when they make Dean go silent. “Cat scratch,” Sam calls it, not bothering to raise his voice over Dean’s constant mumble. One single swipe with his thumb and look, see basically all the grit’s already cleaned out.

“Feels like six fucking inches long,” Dean gripes, voice grinding into the tangle of his unmade sheets.

Sam looks at the wound again. Measures. “Yeah, I guess that’s about right.” He leans in for a closer look. His knee trips over its own depression in the mattress. Fucking memory foam. Catching his balance, he says “Maybe seven.”

Dean’s gone quiet, and Sam doesn’t need to look at his face but he does anyway. Lifted off the mattress on a craning neck, incredulous, _Are you serious_ , lips parted pretty in annoyance. His lips always look so heavy.

“Glad to know I’m in such caring hands.” Dean’s face flattens on the bed once again. His lips probably leave their own impression in the memory foam.

 

Three stitches in and Sam’s fingers are already starting to slip in the bloodiness of everything. “At least it felt good to get out for a bit, right?” Looking on the bright side might stop up Dean’s bubbling stream of complaints.

Dean does stop talking, his back filling out as he holds in an unspoken word. The skin stretches. Sam needs it looser to work with, so he butts his head between Dean’s shoulder blades, pushing weight into his arms instead of his back. Dean is braced against his headboard, his knees sharing dips in the mattress with Sam’s, his bare back bent over at an angle Sam can barely work with. Briefly, Sam wishes he’d insisted on moving this to the bathroom, but it seems too significant that neither of them had thought of that. Dean’s bed was where they were naturally magnetized. Sam smiles again. Finishes another stitch.

The needle pierces, pulls through. Some red pools in the tightening gap. Sam’s eyes fix on the thick rods of lumbar muscle on either side of Dean’s spine, where a sheen of pain-sweat is settled. It’s the kind of sweat that might or might not coax out a drop of blood to join it. Not like it matters, but the might-or-might-not-ness of it keeps Sam still, focused. The drop might fall.

It does. It’s slow and jerking, even with everything wet. It trails a couple of inches, halts, makes a steep turn in the valley of Dean’s spine, catches on a vertebra, is eased along by a slick of sweat. It speeds up, only a couple of inches before it’ll be in Dean’s shorts.

Sam catches it with his tongue. He thinks about it only after Dean’s breath hitches in surprise. Thinking, he finishes licking up the trail, all the way back between his arms, to where his hands are attached to Dean’s wound.

“Didn’t want it to stain your new mattress,” Sam explains with mock seriousness, even though Sam’s tongue on Dean’s skin always needs about as much explanation as why they are doing this in Dean’s room; when it happens, it’s because neither of them is struck by reasons _not_ to.

Dean shifts his hips a little, stretching his skin away from Sam’s fingers. Sam gets back to work. He tastes salt and metal and dirt.

Most of the blood he manages to keep smeared around the vicinity of his fingers, rubbing in anything that threatens to fall. The floss Dean is sewn up with is gory pink, and there’s a brown-red smudge across the back of his ribcage, but Sam doesn’t let anything drip.

Last stitch tied up, and Sam tries to get up to put stuff away. He fumbles all the way to the edge of the mattress before it sends his top-heavy weight flying. He drops everything onto the floor in order to land on his flattened hands, which sink into the slow-moving, somehow sticky-feeling foam.

Glacial, he turns his head to glare accusingly at Dean. When his gaze gets there, Dean is wrenching around to look behind himself and see what happened to Sam. He looks amused, the fucker. “It’s your damned memory foam.”

“Must be you’re hard to forget,” Dean teases, all traces of pain gone from his face. In the corner of Sam’s vision, something dark moves. Blood, from the seam in Dean’s back, tracing the arcing muscle of his side on its way to the groove of hip bone.

Sam catches that with his tongue, too.

Eyes so intent the green is gone, a head bowed and a breath stolen.

 

Seems new to be the one taking things again. After weeks of Dean acting like Sam’s only capable of generosity. Weeks of Dean embracing the absurdity of his demands by taking and taking and taking and making it clear he _knows_ he’s an asshole, but won’t admit his guilt over it to anyone but himself . Weeks of Dean acting like Sam doesn’t _want_ to live with him. Weeks of coming into Sam’s bed and fucking him as if Sam would rather be fucking someone else.

It’s calming, renewing, _sane_ to be bending Dean over the edge of his bed, shoving his cock up Dean’s tight ass like it never occurred to him that he shouldn’t.

“Fuck,” Dean bites out, strained. The half of his face Sam can see is flushed a dark red. The color makes Sam wonder, stomach dropping, just how chafed up and red the half of Dean’s face is that’s currently being dragged back and forth a few inches of sheet repeatedly. Groaning, he slides a hand into Dean’s hair, but holds back from actually using his grip to twist Dean’s head around.

Instead, he stares at Dean’s parted lips. The tip of his tongue that wets the space between them. His strong white teeth, when he bites down on his lower lip every few seconds. The way the full shape of his mouth keeps getting distorted, pulled into something shameless by each snap of Sam’s hips. Sam is painfully hard with wanting to be the sheet Dean’s being pounded into, to feel the drag of his soft-rough-hot skin.

“Fuck, Dean, how do you even make me so fucking hard,” Sam mumbles, watching Dean’s heavy eyelashes flutter against his cheek in response. Pulling his gaze away, he looks down to where he is, truthfully, so fucking hard. Dean’s spread open like crazy for him, dark and slick and stretched like Sam never gets tired of looking at. He lets go of Dean’s hair so he can palm both firm halves of Dean’s ass at the same time, so he can stand up straight, so he can spread Dean with two thumbs and see with heartbreaking clarity where Sam’s skin is touching, _inside of_ , Dean’s.

Dean groans and it sounds like a complaint. Sam realizes he has slowed down, recognizes that unsatisfied ache all over his body. Fingers curled around Dean’s hips, Sam pulls, dragging Dean on and off the throbbing, needy mess of his cock.

In under two minutes, Sam is rubbing himself blind against the sweet-hot flesh inside of Dean, against the slick of his own come.

When he lets go, there are two white handprints in the red of Dean’s ass.

Sam folds. Collapsed on top of Dean, he licks up droplets of sweat from his spine. “You make me insane,” he says, then licks up more of Dean’s earthy, salty sweat. Dean says nothing, but his body is wriggling in protest, and Sam can feel it sighing around his softening dick.

Dean is easy to flip over. Sam’s on his knees, Dean’s cock in his mouth before Dean can even find somewhere for his feet to rest. A choked sound, a moment, and the tip of his cock leaking easy across Sam’s pulling tongue before Dean drops his thighs onto Sam’s shoulders. Sam loves the rough digging of Dean’s heels into his back, loves how full and hot Dean fits in his mouth when he’s this close, this desperate.

As Dean’s back curls, hips thrusting less timid, Sam slides his hand up Dean’s side and around. He stops when his palm crosses something warm and scratchy, remembers the new stitches. Something ages-old and sick in him is fond of the thing, and he cradles the wound close in his hand while swallowing Dean’s cock deeper into his mouth. He rests, all suction and tongue, feeling Dean fuck his mouth, insanely perfect.

Dean doesn’t come until Sam slides two fingers inside him. Sam’s cock twitches pathetically, as always, when he feels Dean’s muscles shuddering, totally beyond control, as spasmodic as the bursts across Sam’s throat. Dean makes him insane.

Sam pushes Dean, who spills bonelessly onto his stomach. Sam’s surprised to find that the sheets are miraculously clean. No blood soaking through the new mattress. He looks down at his hand, sees Dean’s blood smeared across his palm, where it should be.

“Fuck,” Dean is moaning into the air, aimless, content. Sam glances over, ready to tease him or something, but then he notices the drip rolling gently down the small hill of Dean’s ass. Lube, Sam’s come, and streaks of pink because Sam did fuck him _really_ hard. It’s all trailing down, almost to Dean’s pale thigh, on a course for the white sheets.

For a second, Sam thinks about licking it up. Touching Dean all over with his tongue, cleaning him up real good, lapping up the mess from the inside out, feeling Dean’s muscles contract happily around the intrusion. But, Sam knows from experience, if you give your brother a little rimming, he’s going to ask for another fuck. And then they would be here all day.

Sam decides to ignore the mess. Dean’s practically passed out; he even lets Sam arrange him on the bed without protesting about being manhandled. Sam watches a tiny little pool of come start to stain the sheet, and lies down behind Dean, his front an inch away from Dean’s wounded back. If Dean’s not doing his insecure-thing, trying to convince Sam that Dean is _forcing_ him to stay in bed with him, then Sam is going to bask in the silence, and not upset it.

Besides, he thinks, smiling down at the little stain, he kind of wants this stupid mattress to remember him.


End file.
